


More Than Who We Are

by amoergosum



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Hockey Player Patrick Kane, M/M, Meet-Cute, Sharpy being Sharpy, Trainer/Dietitian Jonathan Toews
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 20:41:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17087381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoergosum/pseuds/amoergosum
Summary: During the last week in August, Jon walked into the house to find his mom on the phone with the last specialist he’d seen, a pediatric and adolescent gastroenterologist. He flopped down next to her on the couch and watched her face, trying to glean what he could from her expression and tone.  He scooted closer and wrapped his arms around her middle, waiting for her to get off the phone. Her mouth twitched upward a little on one side, her tone lightening just a bit.She turned to him and told him, “Dr. Hadar thinks you might have a couple of intolerances, and she’s pretty sure one of them is gluten.”“Gluten? What’s that?” he asked her, trying to remember if he’d ever heard the term before.“I guess it’s mostly found in grains, like wheat.”“I’m… allergic to wheat?”“…let’s wait and have Dr. Hadar explain it, honey.”





	1. More Than Who We Are

Jon doesn’t even notice right away. He’s gotten into his full stride, feet pounding the treadmill in perfect time to the song playing in his earbuds, and is totally in the zone. But over the sounds of his perfectly crafted 90s-rock playlist, he hears an erratic thumping that doesn’t so much sound like a normal person running on a treadmill, but rather like one bison, separated from his herd, stampeding all on his own. Eschewing proper gym etiquette, Jon turns his head to see what the hell is happening on the machine next to his own. The sight he is met with is not something he could ever have known to expect.

To his right: a man, probably around his own age, Jon guesses. He’s slight but toned, with a mess of blonde curls poking out from under a backwards snapback. He has on the most obnoxiously bright, highlighter-green and black tracksuit and matching running shoes. And he’s… flailing, it looks like. Just really all over the place, bouncing around the treadmill under the guise of running, while mouthing really quickly what Jon guesses are rap lyrics. Jon pulls out one earbud and is instantly met with crackly bass coming from the man to his right. And yes—the dude is rapping. Like, not even silently, now that Jon’s listening, he’s mumbling the words audibly and he’s running in a way that reminds Jon of those inflatable wavy-arm things in car dealership commercials, and he looks like a neon nightmare, and Jon can’t take it. He barely manages to hit the emergency stop on his machine before the giggles consume him.

Bent double, hands on his thighs, Jon lets the giggles run their course. Eventually, about a minute later, he tries to straighten and get his breathing under control. Unfortunately, he catches his neighbor’s eye as he does, and the man is fully turned and staring straight at him. Shit.

“What’s up?” Jon manages to get out, hoping his face looks normal.

“Dude, you good? What the hell were you laughing at?” asks Flailing Mess, looking both confused and offended.

Jon _really_ hopes this guy has a sense of humor. “You ever seen one of those car commercials? The ones with the inflatable—”

“Don’t. Don’t finish that sentence. I will _end_ you,” Flailtastic half growls, sounding partly amused (thank GOD) and partly exasperated. He touches the “end workout” button on his machine, grabs his right leg behind him, and starts to stretch.

Jon can feel the giggles returning, and decides this guy is much more interesting than running. He smacks a hand onto the controls of his machine to properly end his workout, then starts mimicking Human Highlighter’s stretches. “So—is that just like, how you run? ‘Cause I’ve gotta say—your form could use some work.”

Highlighter smirks a bit, looks Jon up and down in an assessing sort of way, then responds, “Ah, so we’re judging form, are we?” He drops the leg he was stretching, shakes it out a bit, and comes to a rest with a hand on his hip.

Jon doesn’t even know what this guy’s game is, but it kind of looks like flirting? That can’t be right though. Underneath the horrible workout clothes and disastrous hair, he seems way too—all-American, Jon guesses, to be shamelessly sleazy in a gym.

“Why? Got something to say? About my _form_?” Jon spits back, trying to stop smiling and sound combative (and _not_ flirty).

Highlighter’s eyes light up a bit, and he hops off his treadmill to wander in the direction of the paper towels and spray bottles. Over his shoulder, he tosses a casual “yeah, I got something to say,” and disappears around a corner. Jon doesn’t know what the hell is wrong with him, but he is fucking _fascinated_.

It turns out that Neon Nightmare’s name is Patrick, and he plays hockey. Jon learns this in the locker room, where the two of them dally over showering and getting dressed for almost an hour. Neither of them has anything planned for the rest of their day, so they wind up at the little deli across the street, shooting the shit and refueling. Patrick tells Jon about being drafted by the Blackhawks, his last season in London, and how brutal and exciting training camp has been. He’s only been in Chicago for a couple of weeks, has taken to sneaking away from the group whenever he can to go do a solo run at a variety of gyms within walking distance of his hotel. Jon tells Patrick about his job at a fitness center on the West Side, and how he prefers to trek into the Loop, away from his clients and colleagues, for his own workouts.

“Wait, so are you a personal trainer?” Patrick asks, long after they’re finished eating and are veering into loitering-territory.

“Well, yeah, and a dietitian,” Jon says, balling up the wrapper from his sandwich and standing up to head out. He hopes Patrick isn’t one of those people who finds out they know a dietitian and instantly starts questioning every diet or exercise fad he’s ever heard of.

Patrick cocks his head and looks a bit puzzled. “That’s awesome, dude. But you look so young? Like, how many grades did you skip?”

Jon laughs—he gets this a lot. He turns his head to make sure Patrick’s following as he walks out of the deli back onto the sun-drenched sidewalk. “Yeah, I started young. Finished high school at 16, and I already knew what I wanted to do, so I just,” Jon shrugs, “did it.”

Patrick’s quiet for a moment, then says, “well, one of these days you gotta let me see you in action.”

They exchange phone numbers and a back-slapping hug, then part ways—Jon back to the blue line to get home, and Patrick back toward his hotel, Jon assumes. While he walks, he ponders the fact that he’s just met and—befriended?—a professional hockey player. This is pretty cool—as a sports nutrition and fitness guy, it’s definitely in his best interests to network with local athletes. But Jon doesn’t feel like his afternoon was about networking, really. In any case, he’s got a little smile on his face as he runs a finger over the surface of his phone, still displaying Patrick’s contact info.

._/

About a week later, Jon’s walking into his office when he feels his phone vibrate.

**Patrick: hey. you working today? mind taking on a walk-in client :D**

Jon grins, sits on the edge of his desk, and taps out a response.

**Jon: I am, and I do not. Be warned though I am a tough trainer. Not gonna go easy on you.**

**Patrick: do your worst, sir! text me the address i’m gonna cab it**

The next hour passes slowly, Jon looking up every time he hears someone new come in. He’s finishing up with a woman he sees weekly, a postpartum working her way back to running shape, when he finally hears Patrick laughing with the kid at the reception desk. Jon shakes his client’s hand, eyes definitely trained on the front desk, and tries not to be too obvious about hustling her over to the showers. She glances between him and the newcomer, chuckles a bit, and says teasingly, “Jon. I’m good, get out of here. Next client’s a cutie!” then disappears into the women’s locker room. Jon sighs and knows he’ll be subject to a full inquisition next week. He likes Settie, but she is far too discerning for his comfort.

Jon fixes his face, he hopes, and goes over to collect his friend. “Patrick, hey, good to see you. Nice to see you own athletic gear that doesn’t require sunglasses to look at.”

Patrick smiles brightly, eyes dancing with laughter, and leans in for a hug. “Shut up. You ready to be impressed?”

“Show me what you got, hotshot. Told you I’m not going easy on you. Have you stretched?”

“Warmed up and ready to go, boss. Let’s do this.”

The front desk kid looks a bit bewildered—Jon wonders if he recognizes Patrick, if he’s a hockey fan. He steers Patrick over toward his office to put his stuff down and show him around a little, before they start. On the way, they run into Dan, Jon’s favorite colleague. He introduces him to Patrick, and tells him about how they’d met the week before.

“You’re cheating on us with another gym, Jonny?” Dan cries, hands over his heart in mock disbelief.

“ _Jonny_ , huh?” Patrick asks, smiling even wider than before, eyes fixed on Jon. “That’s fucking precious and I’m never calling you Jon again.”

Dan looks way too amused and Jon is not loving it. “Fuck you, Dan. I’m not five and you’re not my mom. It’s _Jon_.”

“Whatever you say, little Jonny,” Dan replies, holding out a fist for Patrick to bump. And bump he does, that loser.

Dan turns wholly toward Patrick, boxing Jon out. “What’re you doing here with this asshole? You really lacking for training?”

“Oh word, you know who I am! Sweet. Nah, not lacking, just wanted to see what Jonny here was all about when he’s not being a dick to strangers at gyms around the Loop.”

“Bro, you’re in for a rough ride. Jonny, take it easy on the kid, he’s probably never been so tired in his life,” Dan directs at Jon, while Patrick looks back and forth between them, still giggling over the nickname probably.

“I’m fine!” Patrick protests, “I’ve been through training camps before. I was on the Knights up in London last year, that camp was brutal too.”

“Well, I don’t want to mess up your, like, tryout or anything. I’ll try not to break you,” Jon responds, instantly regretting what could maybe be taken as innuendo. And yes, that’s Dan shaking with silent laughter right behind him, while Patrick’s eyes gleam with mischief.

._/

Their workout is great, once they quit messing around and actually get going. Patrick has obviously taken his training and conditioning seriously for a long time, as evidenced by his being drafted first overall and going for a roster spot so young. What’s interesting to Jon is how attentive Patrick is to Jon’s instruction and suggestions. Jon figures that having been on so many teams as a kid, Patrick has likely been exposed to the advice of all kinds of coaches, trainers, nutrition experts, and the like. So while it isn’t a surprise that Patrick has learned to adapt, shift his routines and learn new systems, it’s still a very rewarding experience for Jon. As they’re finishing up on the bikes, cooling down, Jon notices that Pat’s sort of wincing, tensing his right thigh. “You okay, man?” he asks, slowing to a stop and reaching for his towel.

“Yeah, I’m okay, just sore. Sprint drills yesterday, I probably should’ve stretched for longer,” Patrick says, climbing gingerly off his bike and limping over to the mats.

“Dude, you should’ve said! When are you on the ice next?” Jon asks. He walks over to stand next to Patrick, and sinks into a squat.

“Eight AM?” Patrick replies, trying to grin sheepishly while pulling his legs into butterfly position.

Jon moves to help Patrick, stopping directly in front of him. “Mind if I help?”

“What, you’re a physical therapist, too? Do you also do surgery?”

“Oh, shut up, and stretch your legs out in front of you.”

Patrick does as he’s told, and Jon shifts into a kneel and shuffles over to straddle his thighs. Patrick looks like he’s about to say something, but Jon reaches out with both hands to push his shoulders backward until he realizes what Jon wants, and lies back. Satisfied with Patrick’s positioning, Jon lifts up a bit and moves so that he’s only sitting over Patrick’s left leg, and can lift his right leg up over his shoulder. Patrick’s breath hitches a bit, from pain or stiffness, Jon guesses, so he eases off just a bit in his pushing. He alternates stretching out Patrick’s quads and hip flexors, noting the reactions he gets in the form of sighs and gusty breaths. Jon is boggling a bit at Patrick’s flexibility, wondering if he practices yoga or some other form of hip mobility drills. At one point, when Jon has Patrick’s leg bent so far that his knee is nearly flat on his chest, Patrick reaches out and smacks his palm against the mat, startling Jon into letting off entirely. Patrick’s face is totally red, and he looks like his breathing is labored, too. “Too much?” Jon asks, shifting over to sit back on his heels.

“I think—that’s enough stretching,” Patrick pants out, looking straight up at the ceiling.

“Okay, let me just—” Jon starts toward his leg again, slowly, to give sort of a perfunctory massage. He doesn’t use a whole lot of pressure, just kneads slowly at his quads in what he hopes is a soothing way. It seems to do the trick; after a couple of minutes of this, Patrick’s eyes are slipping closed, and his breathing seems back under control. Jon feels himself being lulled into a comfortable Zen-like space too, and continues the massage for perhaps a little longer than is really necessary for effectiveness. When he finishes, he sits right back on his heels again, and waits.

Patrick looks loose, much better than he had about half an hour ago. Without opening his eyes, he slowly sits up, stretching out his spine in the process. Jon still hasn’t moved, and the motion brings them basically chest to chest. Jon wonders if it’s weird, but he doesn’t feel compelled to stand just yet, so he stays put. Patrick smiles slowly, reaches a hand toward Jon to pull him in for a loose hug, and whispers, “thanks, man” so that Jon feels it as much as he hears it. Jon feels like he just got a massage himself, and is ready for a long shower or a nap. He tells Patrick, “anytime,” and finds that he means it.

._/

A few busy weeks go by, Jon taking on some extra clients for a colleague going on vacation. He thinks about Patrick almost every day, wonders how the rest of camp is going (has gone? How long is training camp, anyway? He never asked) and hopes he’s doing well. They text pretty often, just funny little messages about their day or stupid pictures, that sort of thing. One Saturday, Jon discovers that he has the next two days off in a row, an extraordinary indulgence, and he decides to see if Patrick wants to catch up. Patrick answers immediately, sounds absolutely delighted to hear from Jon, and suggests a restaurant not far from the gym where they’d first met.

When they meet, Patrick’s looking especially happy, and Jon hopes that means that training camp is going well. He asks, and is rewarded with the brightest grin, Patrick informing him that he’s pretty sure he’s got a roster spot, and was advised to start looking for an apartment. Jon toasts him with his ginger ale, getting swept up in the excitement himself, and the two spend a while talking neighborhoods and real estate. Jon tries to answer Patrick’s questions about the city as thoroughly as he can, despite having never been able to even fathom affording an apartment downtown. It quickly becomes clear to them both that Patrick’s agent and parents will probably do the majority of the legwork for him anyway. That settled, Jon and Patrick get back to more pressing topics of conversation, such as which gaming systems Patrick would be putting in his new living room, and when to start planning his housewarming party.

It’s nice for Jon, having Patrick to chat with. Days and weeks go by, and while both their schedules are still insane, especially once the preseason starts for Patrick, they often seem to manage to find an hour or two to grab lunch or a quick workout. Patrick comes by Jon’s gym sometimes, either with coffee to steal Jon away for a break, or other times just to jog on a treadmill at the back of the gym and observe Jon’s workday. Jon finds, after the surprise of the first visit, that he really likes having someone who comes to visit him or force him to take breaks during the day. Patrick doesn’t always call or text first, knowing Jon sometimes leaves his phone plugged in at his desk, so he imagines there’ve been times he’s shown up and Jon wasn’t even there.

Jon wonders what things will be like when Patrick’s season starts, whether he’ll still get to see him at all, whether Patrick will even care to keep in touch once he knows more people in the city. It’s weird for Jon, feeling so unsure of where he stands with someone. He doesn’t know why it seems to matter to him so much. It’s just another guy he met and worked out with, not a big deal. He thinks he feels like a stereotypical teenage girl, wondering if a guy is going to keep calling. Then he feels guilty for thinking something so sexist. That’s altogether too many feelings for Jon, so he decides to put the whole thing out of his mind. Business is picking up at the gym with the school year in full swing and all the city’s college students resuming their regular workouts, and Jon’s got a full schedule of clients and then some. Plenty to keep him occupied. No time to be distracted by curly-haired, neon-wearing hockey players.

._/

One Friday in early October, when Jon hasn’t heard from Patrick in nearly two weeks, he gets a text that simply reads **free tonight??** Jon feels a smile take over his face, and ducks into the back employees-only hallway to respond.

**Jon: Maybe. What’s up?**

**Patrick: dinner and drinks with the boys. first preseason game next week. come out!**

**Jon: With the team?**

**Patrick: yeah they’re chill and**

Jon doesn’t respond right away—his manager just walked by and gave him a funny look, probably because of whatever his face is doing right now. Which is, just. Great. Jon pockets his phone and goes back out onto the facility floor, randomly correcting people’s form and picking up towels, not really paying attention to anything. He is aware that he should probably respond to his text message. Patrick’s going to think he’s being weird. He is being weird. What does Patrick mean, they want to meet him? What do they know about him? Who do they think he is, just a trainer? A friend?

An awkward amount of time has already gone by, and Jon is still wandering aimlessly around the gym, when his phone vibrates again.

**Patrick: pls?**

**Patrick: if u want it can be just us, I'll tell them ur sick or something**

Jon’s face goes hot, and he has to escape to the office again. Why would Patrick offer to blow off his teammates to hang out with him again? Jon can’t make him do that. He doesn’t want to. To be honest, he thinks it’d be kind of cool to meet the actual Chicago Blackhawks—and probably could manage to not come across as star-struck and incredibly lame. After a short and embarrassingly necessary internal pep-talk, he starts typing.

**Jon: Sorry I didn’t answer, but yeah, dinner sounds good, looking forward to it. Tell me when and where. I’m out of here at 7.**

The three dots indicating incoming response appear immediately. Jon wonders if his face will ever stop being hot, or if he’ll ever not be smiling like a lunatic in an asylum.

**Patrick: really??? that’s awesome Jon I can’t wait. we’re meeting outside rockit at 830. join whenever ur free. I’ll save u a seat :)**

**Jon: Ok. I’ll text you when I’m close.**

**Patrick: :) :) :)**

Jon gives himself precisely 90 seconds to stare at those three emoticons, pulse quickening like he’s doing cardio, before plugging his phone in and tucking it into a desk drawer. As he walks back out onto the floor, he tries to recall whether he’s ever met anyone before who elicits such wild and visceral emotional reactions from him. He thinks back to the few girls he’s dated, back in high school and in his two years of college, as well as the various girls and guys he’s found himself attracted to. Maybe it’s the fact that Patrick is a pro athlete, playing the game Jon loves the most, that’s got him so frazzled. Maybe it’s his cheekbones and bright blue eyes, or the deep dimples that pop out whenever he gives him shit. Whatever it is, Jon has got about four hours to get himself together before dinner so he doesn’t make an absolute fool of himself in front of this guy’s new team.

The next few hours pass excruciatingly slowly, and for maybe the first time since he started this job, Jon finds himself phoning it in a bit. He’s very passionate about health and wellness—has been since childhood, since his own health problems arrived out of nowhere, disrupting his entire life and robbing him of his opportunity to seriously pursue a career in hockey. Sometime around the age of 13, when the more talented of his friends and teammates had started to become more serious in their training and preparation in hopes of impressing scouts, Jon had been relegated to playing fewer and fewer minutes, in deference to those on his team who had a real shot. His parents and coaches came to the agreement that considering Jon’s inability to put on weight and muscle, it was in everyone’s best interests to prepare Jon for the possibility that going pro might not be an option for him, and he might find it worthwhile to consider other interests while his doctors tried to figure out what was wrong with this otherwise healthy kid, who was seemingly doing all the right things but whose body just wasn’t responding accordingly.

By the time he started high school, Jon had already read countless books and articles on digestive health, sports medicine, Eastern medicine, and dietary supplementation. Once he’d decided not to go out for the varsity team, he found himself with a lot of time and energy on his hands. It wasn’t long before he was signing up for classes at the community college in his neighborhood, racking up credits and even getting to do some research and writing of his own. Fast forward about four years, and somehow, Jon has wound up with his GED, a bachelor’s degree, and three professional certifications—and his first job in the field, at the complex where he currently works. It’s a lot for a person to accomplish before they turn 21, but Jon never really lets himself think about it for long. He’s always thinking about the next step, his next move. He loves his work, loves helping people achieve health and fitness goals. But lately, it’s felt like maybe it’s time to move on. To what, he doesn’t know. That could be why he’s so willing to let himself be distracted by this crush he’s got on his most likely very straight, extremely unattainable new friend.

Jon goes home to change, and spends his entire train ride thinking about whether he should dress up more than he usually does. In the end, he winds up in jeans he hasn’t worn since high school (which he has a surprisingly difficult time getting over his thighs, inspiring some thoughts about clothes shopping in the near future, about which he is supremely unexcited) and a dark red sweater. He hopes he doesn’t look like he tried too hard—he’s never been to Rockit, mostly because he has seen lines of guys with too much product in their hair and women in outfits suited more to how well they photograph than to the temperatures outside—but he also doesn’t want to look like a slob when he meets all these guys who make a ton of money and probably hang out with other rich people more often than not. He doesn’t generally think this hard about how he looks or comes across to other people. The only thing he can really compare the feeling to is a job interview, or meeting a significant other’s parents. He decides not to examine the “why” of it too closely—he’s nervous enough as it is, now that he’s admitting as much to himself.

He hangs out at home as long as he can, checking the train schedule periodically on his phone (and knowing that the schedule is meaningless, because this is Chicago), then heads out around 8:15. He figures everyone will be inside by the time he arrives, and hopefully will have had a drink or two already, and won’t notice how quiet and/or weird Jon is. He makes decent time and slowly makes his way over, texts Patrick that he’s around the corner from the bar. He gets back an immediate response of “ **:D :D we r in back u will see us, big table** ” and for the first time, he wonders exactly how many people he is about to meet.

Jon hands over his ID (a very well-made and likely expensive fake, provided by his mother, thank you) at the door, then makes his way back through the bar. He sees a big party at the very back and heads toward them. He pauses around a corner, about a table away, to assess: eight guys he can see, and only a few of them he recognizes from his casual following of the team—Seabrook and Keith he recognizes immediately, Sharp a second after that, and then a few guys he has no idea about.  And, of course, his Patrick, right at the end of the table with what looks like a narrow seat being held by a light jacket. Well. Not _his_ Patrick, he guesses, but the one he knows. The one who is his… friend? For lack of anything better to call him, friend would do. Jon steels himself and emerges from his hiding spot, eyes fixed on Patrick until he’s noticed.

“Jonny!” Patrick exclaims, cutting someone off mid-sentence. “What’s up, dude?! Over here, saved you a seat!” He sounds like he’s had a few, Jon thinks, and to his own annoyance he actually finds it pretty endearing. He briefly wonders who’d had to order them for him, considering he and Patrick are both 19. Maybe Patrick has a fake too, or maybe they didn’t even card these guys, considering who they are.

“Duuude, give him a sec to breathe, you’re scaring him!” Seabrook says to Patrick, smirking like crazy. “Let me up, so your friend can sit.”

Patrick picks up his coat and shoves it under the table to make space for Jon, who slides in close enough to leave room for Seabrook. Patrick gives Jon a one-armed hug, as much as he can do in such tight space, and Jon can feel the warmth in his cheeks, notices some redness he’s never seen before. Jon… is ready for a drink.

Patrick looks around the table, speaks over the little side conversations going on, and says kind of loudly, “Guys, this is Jon!”

The guys all laugh, and one of the guys Jon doesn’t recognize says, “Yes, Patrick, we know.” Patrick has the good grace to laugh at himself too, and leans on him a bit. The guy turns to Jon, introduces himself as Adam Burish, and asks what he’s doing hanging with a loser like Kaner, which makes Jon smile.

“Kaner?”

“Yes, _Jon,_ that’s what the guys call me. Something funny?” Patrick asks, eyes narrowing.

“Not at all,” Jon replies, feeling fond as hell and hoping his face isn’t a mess because of it.

He introduces himself properly to the table, gets a few “hey” and “what’s up, man” responses back, until he gets to Patrick Sharp, across the table at an angle.

“Sharp, right? I’m Jonathan Toews,” he says, hoping not to come across like too much of a fan.

“Wait… that’s how you say it? I thought it was TOES,” Sharp says, sounding confused.

“Umm. Nope, it’s Toews, it’s a French-Canadian name. Umm. Where’d you read my name?” Jon asks, turning back to a sheepish-looking Patrick. Kaner. Whatever.

Sharp responds immediately, “The guys all wanted to know where he was disappearing to during camp, since he was never at his hotel anymore. He told us about your gym and I looked it up. Your staff bio is pretty great.”

Patrick is getting redder by the second, and mumbles into his beer, “What the hell, Sharpy.” Jon is finding this all really endearing and also really strange. He knocks his shoulder into Patrick’s, trying not to look too pleased with himself. Patrick won’t look over at him, but leans in almost imperceptibly closer. Jon throws an arm around his shoulders and turns back to Sharpy.

Jon winds up having a really good time. He loosens up after he gets his first beer in him, and the guys are actually pretty great to talk to. They talk about friends from their hometowns, their families, girlfriends (Jon notices that Patrick stays pretty quiet during that discussion), and sports. At one point, someone mentions an old teammate who’d gone to Shattuck, and Jon asks, “Oh yeah, who?” in case it was someone he’d known. It turns out they’d been about two years apart, and Jon had left Shattuck after only two years anyway, so he didn’t know the guy. But that brings conversation around to Shattuck’s hockey program, and Jon doesn’t really know if he wants to tell these guys he used to play. He’s skated some since high school, but he definitely isn’t anywhere near these professionals in skill, and he figures someone will ask if he was good. In the end, conversation progresses and the moment passes.

Around eleven, a few of the older guys start to bow out, and more drift away soon after that. By midnight, only Patrick, Jon, and Sharpy remain at their table. Jon likes Sharpy, but he wouldn’t mind if the guy took off sometime soon. He’s feeling loose, and Patrick’s gone from chatty and loud to quiet and kind of listing, and Jon sort of wants to walk him home and just talk to him for a little bit. Sharpy, however, is showing no signs of being ready to go. Jon’s going to have to resort to drastic measures. He interrupts the Patricks’ conversation about… socks, maybe? Or slippers?

“Hey, Patrick,” he says, shifting to look directly at _his_ Patrick, “I should get going. Want to walk with me?”

Patrick turns to Jon and softly says, “Sure.” Then, to Sharpy, “Sharpy, you driving or what?”

Sharpy for some reason is looking very amused, and Jon thinks it may be at his expense, which is obnoxious. “Yes, little Patty, I’m driving. Only had two drinks all night. Not that you noticed me at all tonight.”

Patrick snorts and says, “Whatever, who wants to look at your ugly face, anyway.”

Jon stands to put his coat on, when Sharpy suddenly comes to stand beside him and turn them both so that they’re facing the door, while Patrick is still stuck in the booth. Jon freezes, doesn’t know what’s happening.

“Pat,” Sharpy calls back, over his shoulder, “Does Jonathan have a nicer ass than me? I think he might, but I need a second opinion.” Jon wrenches himself away from Sharpy and hastily puts his coat back on, and hears Patrick tell Sharpy to go fuck himself. Jon agrees, wholeheartedly. He really shouldn’t have worn these stupid old jeans.

Mercifully, Sharpy decides to leave then, still laughing. Jon glances back at Patrick, who is shoving his arms into his coat pretty aggressively. Jon feels awkward and embarrassed, sure that Patrick’s teammates can tell how into Patrick Jon is, and he really hopes Patrick isn’t weirded out by it.

“Hey, so, your team is kinda a bag of dicks, huh?” Jon says, hoping to get a laugh out of Patrick. It works.

They leave the bar and start walking in the direction of the blue line, which takes Jon the closest to his place. Jon realizes he doesn’t even know where Patrick’s living these days, so he asks.

“Oh, yeah, I’ve been staying with Stan, actually. Hadn’t gotten around to finding an apartment yet and the season’s about to start, and my family thought it might be better to wait,” Patrick responds.

“With Stan? Like, your GM Stan Bowman?” Jon asks, incredulous.

“Yeah,” Patrick answers, sounding amazed himself. “He’s got a wife and kids, and they’re younger, but it’s pretty cool to be around a family like that, since mine can’t be here that much.” At that, Patrick starts to sound a little wistful, which Jon can relate to, having moved away from home so young. Jon moves to walk a little closer to Patrick, reaches an arm out around his shoulders, to which Patrick responds immediately by wrapping an arm around Jon’s waist. They’re pretty close to Jon’s stop, and he doesn’t want to separate just yet, so he slows them down some.

“Well, then I’m glad you have them, and I’m sure they’re glad to have you, too,” Jon says, softly. He sees that they’re around the corner from his train stop, so he pulls Patrick into an alcove, the heavily-graffitied entrance of a long-closed convenience store. Patrick stumbles in after Jon, and they wind up face to face, really close.

“Thanks, Jonny,” Patrick says in a small voice. He’s still got an arm around Jon’s waist, but isn’t looking up at him. Jon wavers for about two seconds, thinks, _fuck it_ , and reaches out to tip Patrick’s face upward.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you around all the time,” Jon says firmly, trying to broadcast with his eyes what he’s hoping to do here. No need—Patrick leans forward and pecks Jon on the lips himself. Before he can pull away, Jon grabs hold and drags him back in again, kisses him properly and holds him as close as they can get while still in a semi-public place, though Jon hasn’t noticed anyone around. Patrick’s lips are wonderfully soft, between the chapped bits Jon is always watching him chew on. An errant thought crosses his mind that maybe Jon’s lip balm will transfer and heal Patrick’s lips, which causes him to break the kiss into a giggle against Patrick’s mouth. Patrick is laughing, too.

“You drive me insane,” Patrick breathes out, eyes half-closed and unfocussed.

“Yeah?” Jon asks, smiling. “How so?”

“I can’t ever tell what you’re _thinking_ ,” he says, exasperatedly. “I’ve been into this since day one. I had no idea you were even into _guys_ , let alone me.”

“I mean, I’d never really thought about a guy this way before, but I’m not too worried about it. It’s you, you know?”

“I guess it’s sort of the same for me. Like, I’ve thought about other guys in passing, but never enough to act on it,” Patrick says, leaning back against the wall facing Jon.

“Never?” Jon asks. “So, what, only girls before me?”

“Well, yeah. Like, in Juniors, I was pretty busy, so it’s not like I was actively looking or picking up or whatever. Before that, maybe I’d see a girl a few times over the summer, but nothing serious, I guess.”

Jon smiles a little, remembering. “Yeah, I know how that goes. Hockey kinda takes everything out of ya, doesn’t it?”

Patrick startles a little. “Wait,” he says slowly. “Did you… you played! I knew it!”

Jon exhales, takes a second to collect himself, then starts. “Yeah. I’m from Winnipeg—everyone plays, growing up there.”

Patrick nods, but says nothing, looks Jon right in the eyes, waiting for him to continue.

“So, I played as a kid, then obviously I was at Shattuck, and I played there too. Coaches were pretty impressed, they all seemed convinced I’d play for a D1 school at least, if not go pro. But I got sick, so my ability to play kinda took a hit, until I really couldn’t play at all.”

Patrick gasps. “Sick? What happened?”

“I was… twelve? Thirteen, maybe? And I started having these stomachaches, cramps, that kind of thing. Couldn’t really hold much down. I don’t want to gross you out—”

“—whatever, just tell me.”

“But basically I was intolerant of almost everything I tried to eat, started losing weight, couldn’t really keep on any muscle. Went on that way for a while, and by the time we’d figured out what was going on, I’d lost too much playing time. Plus, I’d started studying nutrition health by then, so I knew what I wanted to do with my life.”

Patrick’s quiet for a second. “So, are you still… sick? What did you have?”

Jon reaches out, takes Patrick’s hand. “I’m okay now. I have a lot of food allergies and intolerances, which were screwing with my gut hormones and throwing me off mentally. I got really into figuring out what I could eat, supplementing, and working out. It’s gotten easier.”

Patrick is looking down at their hands, not saying anything. Jon waits.

“Do you miss it?”

“What, hockey?” Jon asks. Patrick nods. “Yeah, I do. I still skate, some.”

Patrick snorts and says, “I knew your ass was a hockey ass. Either that, or figure skating.” Jon laughs outright at that one.

“Wish I could say that’s a new one, but sadly, I have heard it before.”

Jon gives himself a vain moment to enjoy Patrick’s appreciation of his… assets. He’s worked very hard on it, so he deserves this. Despite how difficult things like pants can be.

The two smile soppily at each other for another half minute or so, before Jon says, “I should probably get going. I’m not opening, but I do have to get to the gym pretty early tomorrow.”

Patrick sighs. “Yeah, I should, too. Gotta get on a good sleeping schedule before next week.”

Jon hesitates, wonders if he can kiss Patrick again. Patrick seems to pick up on it, the ways his eyes dart down to Jon’s mouth a few times, but doesn’t make any moves himself.

“So,” Patrick starts. “So, see you… soon?”

“Sure,” Jon agrees easily. “Whenever you’re free, you know where to find me.”

“That I do,” Patrick replies, sounding a little stiff, awkward maybe. “Well. See ya,” he says, looking like he’s going in for a hug. Jon just goes with it, hugs him tight and hangs on for a second after Patrick’s already let go.

Jon hears a thundering in the distance, probably his train arriving. He may as well try to run for it, he thinks, if only to get out of this weird, tense limbo they’ve created in their alcove. He races up the stairs to the platform and flings himself through the doors just as they’re about to close. He finds an empty seat and settles in for the long ride, lulled into a stupor by the rhythmic swaying of the train.

It’s been years since he’s thought very much about that time in his life, getting sick and losing hockey, but his conversation with Patrick brings memories he thought he’d long since repressed.

._/

When Jon was fifteen, he decided to go to boarding school in Minnesota. Leaving home, leaving Canada, and joining a school where many of the other students had already known each other for years was, not surprisingly, really fucking hard. But having decided years before that what he wanted most was to play professional hockey, specifically in the NHL, he felt that this was something he needed to do. Shattuck-St. Mary’s was an institution that had produced some of the greatest talents in the league, and Jon was excited to join their ranks. His parents were disappointed that he was ready to leave home so soon, and Jon felt a lot of guilt over their worrying, but he knew he’d be fine: this was for hockey. This was the best way to give himself a shot at the pros, to position himself, by playing at a school where he’d receive excellent instruction, where the guys he’d be playing with were every bit as serious as he was, where the game came second to nothing.

It had been about a week since his family had dropped him off, his mother making him promise that he would answer her calls, get enough sleep, and make a real effort not to let schoolwork fall too far to the wayside. A week of sleeping in a rock-hard dorm bed, with a roommate with questionable hygiene, and waking up at ungodly hours for conditioning before the season officially started. There were bags under his eyes, he was achy all the time, and on that first Sunday morning, he started feeling really sick. Adam (the smelly roommate) was the first person to ask him about it.

“Hey, you okay? You look terrible, dude.”

Jon rolled over in bed, squinted over at where Adam was standing fully dressed, and flung his arm over his face. He needed to get up and get something to eat before practice that afternoon, but didn’t quite trust his stomach to hold anything more than the water he’d been sipping slowly since he woke up. He was fine, this nausea he’d been feeling was probably just nerves or adrenaline or whatever, anticipation of a new hockey season and school year. “Yeah, I’m good. Just tired I guess,” he rasped.

“’Kay. Can you not die, though? I wanted a single, but this is not how I envisioned that happening.”

Jon snorted. “Shut the fuck up.”

Adam cackled, grabbed his keycard and wallet off his desk, and left for the dining hall. Jon continued to lie still for another couple of minutes, gave himself a stern mental pep-talk, then slowly got ready to follow.

The nausea didn’t stop, turned to vomiting after most meals, and within another week, Jon was mostly confined to bed. The administration had no intention of allowing Jon to attend practices, being in this state—and after his parents were called back to the school, and after several visits to area doctors, there was still no real diagnosis. Disappointed, confused, and angry, Jon and his family returned to Winnipeg, just before the start of term. In an effort to prevent Jon falling behind academically, they enrolled him in the local high school. He was devastated. All he’d wanted for as long as he could remember was to do anything he could to improve his game, play the best hockey he could, among the best players his age. That chance, being at Shattuck, had been ripped from his grasp within the space of two weeks. He became despondent—in a trance, he shuffled from school, to doctors’ offices, and home again, where he’d stickhandle with a rubber ball along the carpet in his bedroom until dinner, where he’d pick at his plate until he’d eaten enough to stop his parents’ staring.

Spending more time at home meant being around his family basically all the time. Jon had never been incredibly talkative, but his illness had turned him inward a bit more. He was quieter, more observant. He started picking up on things he’d never noticed before, when he’d always been at school, or practice, or playing pickup outside with his neighbors. Had his parents always argued this much? Had his dad always worked so late, so often? It seemed David was barely ever home anymore, either—after a few weeks of trying to draw Jonny out, to get him to at least play video games when he was feeling up to it, even he seemed to give up. By late fall, when David was busier with school and his friends, and hockey, he rarely even asked Jon if he wanted to join him anymore.

Jon wasn’t playing hockey that year. His new school’s team had approached him, being that a lot of kids on the team had played with Jon before and knew he was good, but he’d never even gone to watch a practice when he’d been invited. These days, Jon was tired basically all the time. He kept hearing talk about his blood count, and absorption rates, and other things that didn’t make a ton of sense to him, but all it really meant was that he had the energy to get up, ride to school, and sit through classes—and that was all. By the end of his last class, he was flagging, and sometimes he’d be dozing on the ride home. There was no end to the doctors’ visits and blood tests, changes to his diet and vitamin supplements, but it all boiled down to one thing: Jon couldn’t play hockey anymore. And considering that was all he’d ever wanted to do with his life, he was fucking pissed at the universe. In his mind, his life was over before it’d even started, and that was all there was to it.

By the time the school year was coming to a close, they were no closer to figuring out what was wrong with Jon than they had been when it started. Sometimes he’d go a few weeks with no symptoms, almost energetic enough to consider at least running, or a light workout, after school. And sometimes he was so sick he’d be out of school for days. His parents were at their wits’ end dealing with all the appointments, and referrals to specialists, and requests to try new drugs without even a diagnosis to go on. By July, the tension at home had hit boiling point. It seemed no one was speaking to anyone else more than they had to, and mealtimes were an absolute joke—Jon couldn’t or wouldn’t eat anything, David was resentful of all the things being cut out of the family menu, and their dad was never around in the evenings anyway. Sometimes Jon would go an entire day without speaking to anyone in his family, and he knew it wasn’t right, that they were going through a lot with his being sick, but all he could feel was resentment. It was stupid, but he felt kind of like he was letting his whole family down every time he couldn’t clear his plate, or his clothes looked especially baggy on him, or when he fell asleep on the couch before it was even dark out. If he were trying harder, being more observant about which foods in particular bothered his stomach the most, or forcing down protein shakes after he’d puked up a meal, then maybe the rest of them would lighten up. He just couldn’t find it in him to try so hard anymore.

Finally, during the last week in August, Jon walked into the house to find his mom on the phone with the last specialist he’d seen, a pediatric and adolescent gastroenterologist. He flopped down next to her on the couch and watched her face, trying to glean what he could from her expression and tone. It was hard these days—he knew his being sick was majorly stressing her out, and he was starting to get a little too accustomed to seeing her with fingers pressed to her temples, frown lines around her mouth and deep grooves between her eyes. Just another of several changes around the Toews/Gilbert household this past year. He scooted closer and wrapped his arms around her middle, waiting for her to get off the phone. Her mouth twitched upward a little on one side, her tone lightening just a bit.

She turned to him and told him, “Dr. Hadar thinks you might have a couple of intolerances, and she’s pretty sure one of them is gluten.”

“Gluten? What’s that?” he asked her, trying to remember if he’d ever heard the term before.

“I guess it’s mostly found in grains, like wheat.”

“I’m… allergic to wheat?”

“…Let’s wait and have Dr. Hadar explain it, honey.”

._/

For the next few days, Jon hears nothing from Patrick at all. He knows he must be busy, but it isn’t like Patrick to just go silent like this, out of nowhere. He keeps opening their text thread on his phone and scrolling through it. Even on their busiest days, they’d always managed at least a “hey” or some funny observation or something. It’s disheartening, and Jon tries not to dwell too much. He’s pretty sure he knows what’s going on here, anyway. It’s obvious there’s been chemistry between the two of them since they met. They would flirt like crazy, always manage to spend time together, and they both seemed to genuinely want to get to know more about each other’s lives and backgrounds. But Jon can’t forget that Patrick is about to start his rookie year with the Chicago Blackhawks, an Original Six team, in a city that, while not overtly supportive of their home team these days, would at least recognize the more-often-discussed higher draft picks. Not only that, but Patrick was literally living in his boss’s house. Jon could see why getting involved with a guy, a local who isn’t even associated with the team, would be risky. He’d hoped Patrick would at least bring that up, if it were a concern for him, so Jon could reassure Patrick that he had no intention of telling anyone anything Patrick didn’t want people to know. Jon hasn’t really been thinking in terms of the long-term (not yet, anyway), but he’d like to think that they could cross that bridge when they came to it. But it looks like Patrick ran ahead and jumped off the bridge without a backward glance.

Jon’s aware he’s being dramatic. He doesn’t really care, at the moment. Work is managing to both bore him to tears and exhaust him completely, and without his favorite distraction, he is back to alternating between dead-hearted complacency and a fiery desire to do something drastic.

._/

About a week after they last saw each other, the day before the ‘Hawks’ first preseason game at home, Jon is sitting with Mia up at the front desk, supposedly doing paperwork on his laptop but actually reading up on PhD programs on his favorite industry blog, when into the gym blows Patrick fucking Sharp, in an outfit that looks like it cost thousands of dollars and a coat that looks even more expensive. He stops just inside the door, scans the floor for a second, then startles when he sees Jon sitting in the check-in area.

“Um… hi?” Jon greets him, lowering the lid of his laptop. “What’re you doing here?”

“Jonathan. Sorry to barge in on you while you’re working, but do you have a sec?” Sharpy asks, sounding kind of rushed but not, like, distressed or anything.

Jon looks over at Mia, who barely turns her head and says boredly, “You’re good, I’ll cover the floor.”

Jon highly doubts she’ll even glance toward the floor once, but decides he’ll just go quickly, see what’s up, and it will probably be fine. “Want to come back to my office to talk?”

“Sure,” Sharpy says, sounding grateful.

Jon leads him across the floor toward the consult area in the back, waves Sharpy ahead, and shuts the door behind them. Leaning back against the door, he folds his arms and asks, “What’s up? Everyone okay?”

Sharpy responds right away, “Yeah, sorry, nothing bad happened! I just wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t have your number and I felt weird asking Kaner for it.”

“Oh-kayyyy, so, what’s up man?” Jon asks, wondering what the hell is going on.

“So, question. Did something happen with you and Kaner after dinner last week? I know I was probably being pretty obnoxious, but I didn’t think either of you were taking me too seriously. I’m sorry, if I started a fight, or something.”

Jon thinks back, tries to figure out what Sharpy might be talking about. “You mean, like, talking about my ass and stuff?”

Sharpy fidgets a bit, looking guilty. “Well yeah, I guess. And other stuff, like, implying you two were boyfriends or whatever? I don’t really think that, I was just fucking around. Kaner’s been weird and hasn’t really been talking to me since then, and I tried to apologize, but…”

“I mean, Patrick didn’t really seem too upset after you left, so I don’t think so…” Jon says, wondering what else is going on.

“’Cause, like, I didn’t mean to offend you guys, calling you gay or whatever,” Sharpy continues, sounding really serious and contrite.

Jon takes a deep breath, holds it for a second, and exhales slowly. “Patrick,” Jon starts.

“Call me Sharpy,” Sharpy cuts in.

“Okay. Sharpy, that’s not… something that would offend me. Patrick and I aren’t together, but if we were, that wouldn’t be… outside the realm of possibility, for me,” Jon says carefully, hoping Sharpy understands what he’s trying to say here. He doesn’t want to imply anything—true or not—about _his_ Patrick, but he does want to make it perfectly clear that he isn’t necessarily 100% straight. He hasn’t really thought too hard about it, beyond his current situation with Patrick, but it isn’t a great source of anguish for him, or anything.

Sharpy looks shocked, only for a second, before schooling his face into his wide, trademark media grin. Jonny is a bit dazed, to be perfectly honest, and takes great pains not to let it show. “Interesting!” Sharpy says, followed by, “Well, that’s pretty good news!”

Jon’s face screws up in confusion. “Um… why?” _Shit_ , Jon panics, hoping he’s not being hit on by the Blackhawks’ wrong Patrick, wondering how one easily lets down arguably the most handsome man in a city. What a ridiculous problem to have.

“Welllll,” Sharpy responds, “If you did happen to be interested in being… together… with Kaner, I think your interest might be reciprocated.” Sharpy walks around to the chair behind the consulting desk and sits down, clearly more comfortable than a few minutes ago.

Jon doesn’t really know what to say, here, without implicating Patrick behind his back, but takes a moment to be relieved that this isn’t what he thought it was. “Ah,” he starts, searching for words. “Well, I don’t know—”

“Actually,” Sharpy interrupts, “I’m nearly positive that’s the case. If you’re interested. Not that it’s for me to say, so you should talk to him. Have you been talking to him? Because I haven’t,” he repeats, speaking quickly and terrifyingly like he might be building up to something. Jon should put a stop to this, he thinks.

“No, we haven’t, not since last week anyway,” Jon tells him. “I figured you guys must just be super busy, with preseason starting and stuff.”

“Really?” Sharpy asks loudly, incredulous. “Well, you should! He’s been in such a shit mood the last few days, and I assumed it was because you guys were fighting. But if you _aren’t_ , and you’ve just been busy, could you at least shoot him a text or something? I don’t want him moping like this when we’re about to play. I like the kid, I don’t want his game to suffer because he’s in a funk, you know. Hearing from you always cheers him up, he was so obnoxiously happy after he started working out with you.”

Jon thinks about it, decides that maybe it was unfair of him to leave the ball entirely in Patrick’s court, when he could be feeling just as unsure as Jon has himself all this past week. Resolved on that front, he responds to Sharpy, “Yeah, of course. I’ll text him tonight.”

Sharpy looks relived, blows out a huge breath. “Thanks, Jonathan. Really, thank you so much, I hope this works. Sorry again for being an asshole at dinner—hope I didn’t scare you off from coming out with the boys ever again! They all say hey, by the way.”

Jon laughs. “It’s all good, no worries. And it’s Jon, okay? Nobody calls me Jonathan outside of work and school.”

Sharpy grins evilly. “Or is it… _Jonny?_ ”

Jon walks around to the consultant’s chair, drags Sharpy to standing by the arm, both laughing now. “Shut the fuck up, Sharpy. It’s Jon. Get out of my office.”

“Okay, Jonny, I’m going, no need to call security,” Sharpy says, yanking free and putting his hands up.

._/

After Sharpy leaves, Jon takes a lap around the gym to make sure everything’s okay, which it is. He apologizes to Mia, who waves him off. Then, feeling a little guilty about it, he considers going back to the consult room to text Patrick. Before he makes up his mind, though, Dan walks in to start his training shift. Jon watches as Dan greets Mia, clocks Jon where he’s standing, then moves very quickly and purposefully toward him. Jon stays still, curious what other fuckery awaits him on this very strange workday.

“Jonny,” Dan starts, sounding far more serious than usual. “How you doing, bud?”

“I’m fine,” Jon answers. “You?”

“Good, good. So like. Everything’s good with you?”

Jon narrows his eyes, suspicious. “As far as I know. Do you know otherwise?”

Dan looks around pretty wildly, puffs up his cheeks, then exhales and seems to deflate. “What’s up with you and your hockey player friend? Patrick Kane?”

 _For fuck’s sake,_ Jon thinks. “Nothing is up, Dan,” he says firmly, trying to push past him to get to the consult room.

Then Dan blurts out, “Well, he came by here yesterday after you left, and I asked him why he hadn’t just called or texted to see if you were working, and he looked like he was gonna _cry_.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, dude, I thought like, maybe you guys had a fight or something, but he said no, he just didn’t think you wanted to talk to him anymore, and he wanted to know if you’d said anything to me about not wanting to talk to him anymore,” Dan responds, looking for all the world like he’s absolutely loving this conversation. Jon is absolutely hating this conversation, by the way, and thinks viciously that Dan needs a fucking life if this rom-com shit is that interesting to him.

“Okay,” Jon says, quietly. “Okay. I am going to go into that consult room right there and call him. You… get ready for your shift, or something, and leave me alone. But first go tell Mia to watch the floor for me again. Wait, no, ask her, and say please.” And without waiting for a response, Jon turns on his heel and walks straight back, and shuts the door behind him.

Seated at the desk, Jon pulls out his phone and just looks at it, for a second, thinking. Patrick obviously doesn’t think Jon wants to hear from him, which is why he hasn’t called or texted. But why would he think that? What about their last encounter could possibly have given him that impression? Jon is pretty sure that kissing a person multiple times does not imply hatred, or disgust, or anything of the like. Unable to come up with anything, he scrolls to Patrick’s name and presses call. He has no idea what he’s going to say, but it’s clear they need to speak _to_ each other, and not just about each other to friends.

Surprisingly, Patrick picks up after only two rings, with a loud and harried sounding, “Hello?”

“Hey,” Jon starts, and clears his throat. “Hey, it’s me, Jon—Jonny.”

“Jonny, hi!” Patrick responds, sounding pretty pleased. “How are you, dude?”

“Um, fine, I guess? How are you? It’s been a while,” Jon says, cautiously.

“Yeah, I know. Hey, listen, I am so sorry I ghosted on you last week,” Patrick says, sounding strained.

“It’s okay, I didn’t call or text you either, so I’m sorry too,” Jon responds. “But is everything good?”

Patrick doesn’t say anything for a second, and Jon starts to worry. Then he says, “I know Sharpy came and talked to you. Sorry about that, too. He just texted me about two minutes ago, I would have stopped him if I knew.”

“It’s fine, it was good to see him,” Jon replies, relieved. “He’s a good guy. Annoying, for sure, but pretty cool anyway.”

Patrick laughs. “Yeah, he can be okay sometimes.”

“Like I can complain about having two different Blackhawks at my gym in two weeks. At this rate, I’m probably up for a promotion,” Jon jokes.

Patrick laughs again, sounding a little less strained. “True. Listen, Jonny, I don’t know why I freaked out last week. By the time I got my head right again, I was mostly just embarrassed and didn’t know what to say to you. But then you didn’t call or text me either, so I figured you must be over it.”

Jon feels something in him relax, and says, “I figured it was something like that. Must be weird for you, kissing a dude you haven’t known all that long, when you’re just starting your career, far from home and everything.”

“Yeah, that’s part of it, I guess.”

“But no, I wasn’t… ‘over it’, or whatever,” Jon continues. “I just figured you didn’t want to see me anymore, so I was just. Trying. To be over it.”

Patrick exhales noisily. “But you’re not, right?”

“Nope,” Jon says, heart beating really fast.

“Good. Me neither,” Patrick says.

They’re both quiet for a second.

“You have a game tomorrow, right?” Jon asks, just for something to say.

“Yup, finally! I don’t know if I’ll end up playing much, if at all, but I’m pumped for a real game finally. Hey, you wanna come?”

Jon has read Patrick’s stats, the scouting reports, and current press. The kid is absolutely going to play. He knows he’s free—he’d requested off to watch the game weeks ago. Granted, he’d been fairly certain he’d be watching at home, or best-case scenario at a bar with Dan, but still. “Sure. I’ll get tickets when I’m off work tonight.”

“No no, on me, please. I’ll leave you two with security. You can bring Dan, if you want. Or whoever.”

Jon recalls his most recent conversation with Dan, and chuckles a bit. “Oh, you mean your new best friend, Dan? Who you come to see at work when I’m not around?” Jon teases, hoping that they’re in a place where teasing is okay.

Patrick snorts obnoxiously. “I was hoping he wouldn’t say anything, but he totally did, didn’t he.”

“Yup. Sorry, dude, Dan’s kind of the worst. I tried to warn you.”

Patrick hums noncommittally, then asks, “What are you doing after work today?”

Jon had been thinking about getting a workout in himself, then hitting up a grocery store on his way home, but all that flies out the window at the thought of seeing Patrick again. He tells him he’s free, and the two make plans to meet at a smoothie place around the corner from the gym, and Jon tells Patrick that he really needs to get back out on the floor soon if he wants to leave on time.

._/

Jon gets through the rest of his shift, mind wandering all the while. He thinks about what he wants to say to Patrick when he sees him. On the one hand, he wants to clear the air and communicate his intentions like an adult, so they don’t keep sorting out their issues via carrier pigeon (which is an excellent visual for Dan and Sharpy, he thinks amusedly); on the other hand, Patrick is obviously young and inexperienced at anything relationship-like, and Jon is aware that regardless of how cool some people might be about Patrick dating a guy, they would have to be pretty discreet about it. It doesn’t really bother him, at least not now while the idea of dating Patrick is still such a new idea to him, and he thinks maybe he’s moving too quickly in his own head. He just feels as though he needs to identify all the reasons Patrick might cut and run, or tell Jon it’s not a good idea to be together, before Patrick thinks of them himself.

Jon thinks about what he knows about the League, either from articles or interviews, or the friends and teammates he’s had over the years who have tried or are trying to go pro, battling it out in college or the minors. He thinks about how different Patrick’s life is about to become—the attention he’ll get being a top draft pick in a city that actually cares about his sport, from the media, from the Chicago elite, from people he’s known his whole life to whom he may suddenly become more interesting. He wonders how much of that, if any, Patrick is dealing with already, and whether it bothers him, or if he’s lucky enough to enjoy that aspect of being an NHLer in addition to playing the game he loves. It’s hard to imagine the Patrick he knows, the goofy, charismatic disaster of a kid, in the same way he thinks about all the other rich city-slickers in the Loop. But Jon is self-aware enough to know that if that were to happen, if Patrick were to fall hard into the Lifestyle of the Rich and Famous, he could easily become one of the things that gets left behind, like cheap beer and fast food. Throw into the mix that he’s a guy, that Patrick won’t be able to bring him to family parties and team events the way he could if he were seeing a woman with the grooming and background all good NHL WAGS share, and it’s hard to imagine Patrick not getting tired of him before long. He knows it’s not productive to be considering the end of something that’s barely beginning, but Jon can’t help it, and by the end of the workday, he’s feeling a little blue.

He finishes his paperwork and logs the last of his clients’ progress notes, then heads out for the evening, stopping by the front desk to thank Mia again for covering for him all day. He throws on a hoodie and sets out for the smoothie shop, mind churning with scenarios, none of them good. When he arrives at the shop and pulls out his phone to text Patrick, he hears a tapping on the glass from inside, and sees Patrick sitting at a table in the front window with a frightening-looking bright blue drink in front of him, as well as what looks like a very normal and delicious green smoothie in front of the open seat. _For me_ , Jon thinks, feeling touched. One last deep, bracing breath, and he walks in.

“Hey,” he greets Patrick, sitting on the stool opposite him.

“Hey yourself,” Patrick replies. “How was work?”

“Fine,” Jon says. “You look nice—what’ve you been up to?”

Patrick’s wearing what look like nicely tailored jeans, a dark blue shirt and gray sport coat. He looks amazing—Jon notes that this is the first time he’s ever seen Patrick in non-athletic wear that actually fits him, and the difference it makes is both startling and intensely attractive. It does absolutely nothing to dispel the feeling that Jon is outclassed and outmatched, that to an outsider their smoothie date probably looks like an interview for a job for which Jon couldn’t possibly be qualified.

“Just trying on some of the new stuff the PR guys had me buy, for events or interviews or whatever. Kinda wanted to see what you thought,” Patrick says shyly, blushing a little.

“Well, you look amazing. You always do, though,” Jon tells him honestly, feeling his own cheeks heat.

“Thanks,” Patrick answers, looking up at him through his lashes and tracing patterns on the table in front of him. Jon’s transfixed by his fingers, tracks their movement. “You do, too.”

Jon snorts a little in derision, plucking the front of his hoodie. “Yeah, okay. I look like a poor college kid. You’re sweet, though.”

Patrick looks up properly at that. “Jon, you _are_ a college kid. Or, were, whatever. And that’s great, you’re so smart, you’ve done so much and you’re so young.”

“I mean, I guess…” Jon says quietly, trailing off.

“No, Jonny, that’s like, half the reason I went nuts last week and stopped talking to you. After I went home, I started thinking about how smart you are and like, your career and everything, and I didn’t really get why you would even bother hanging out with a dumb jock like me—”

“Patrick, no. You’re not dumb, how could you say that? Do you really think that?”

Patrick exhales in a huff, running his hands roughly through his hair. “No, I don’t think I’m dumb,” he says slowly, “but I am aware of how unmatched we are.”

Jon’s stomach drops in dread. He reaches out to take a sip of his smoothie, just to occupy his hands.

Patrick continues, “Listen, before I keep going, just—hear me out, okay? I’m not—I don’t know the future, obviously. I don’t know how this season will go. I don’t know if I’ll be in Chicago or Rockford, or back and forth. I know I’m going to be traveling a lot, and have a lot of off-ice obligations, media stuff, charity events. But. I really like you. And when I kissed you, you seemed to… not hate it. So like, I want to do this properly, take you out somewhere that’s not a gym or a sandwich shop or whatever. Is that something you’d want?” He stops speaking, and suddenly looks up straight into Jon’s eyes. Jon can’t even think for a moment, let alone respond.

Eventually, before Patrick can have a chance to second-guess himself, Jon says, “Of course I do, Patrick, you must know that by now.” He uncrosses his ankles to kick out at Patrick’s shin.

“And like. Being in the NHL,” Patrick says, speaking much more quietly, causing Jon to scoot forward to hear him over the table, “I don’t know if I’ll start getting recognized right away, or if it won’t happen until we start winning more, but. That might make it hard, you know, to date a guy. And I don’t want you to have to hide. You’re not the one living a public life, but you’d probably be affected by it. I’d understand if that wasn’t something you’d want,” he finishes, so quiet Jon can barely hear him.

It’s funny. Jon had already thought about this, but not from the perspective of being the one inconvenienced. He tries to imagine what it would be like dating Patrick, and surprisingly, rather than feeling insecure or awkward about the prospect of hiding their relationship, all he feels is excited about getting to see Patrick more, feeling entitled to “good game” texts and days off together.

All Jon says to Patrick is, “We’ll figure it out,” with what he hopes is an encouraging smile.

._/

They move on to lighter topics then—talk about Jon’s work, Patrick’s morning practice and how ready he’s feeling for their first preseason game, something stupid Bur and Sharpy did to prank one of the Finnish rookies. Jon asks Patrick what he’s doing with his evening, if he wants to come over and do dinner. Jon is about to suggest they get a cab, even though there’s a blue line stop two blocks west, but before he gets a chance, Patrick says his car’s parked outside and he’ll drive them.

Patrick’s car is absolutely hideous. It’s a bright yellow Hummer, ostentatious and horrible, and Jon feels compelled to give Patrick shit about it the entire ride to his apartment, in between giving him directions. When they get to Jon’s street, he looks over at Patrick nervously, wondering if he’ll feel comfortable parking his car in this neighborhood. It’s not particularly unsafe, but the Hummer will absolutely stand out among the sedately-colored sedans and the occasional pickup truck on Jon’s block. It’s not like Wicker Park is that bad an area, as far as Chicago goes, but he’s sure it’s a far cry from whatever swanky suburb the Bowmans live in. Jon opens his mouth to suggest finding a garage out on Milwaukee or something, but Patrick expertly parallel parks in a spot two doors down from Jon’s building and just turns to look at him smugly, obviously wanting to be acknowledged for his superior parking skills. Jon rolls his eyes and jumps out of the car, leading the way up, while Patrick cackles like a lunatic behind him.

Jon is turning the key in the lock to his front door when he remembers that he kind of left the place a disaster that morning. He doesn’t remember if he put his laptop away, moved any of his books, or even turned off the coffeemaker before leaving for work. It’s too late to be embarrassed by all that now, since Patrick’s literally hovering over Jon’s shoulder (well, as much as you can be over someone’s shoulder when you’re a good four inches shorter). Jon shuffles into his apartment, kicks off his shoes, and hustles straight over to his couch, picking up a hoodie and sweats, piling his books up on the coffee table, and trying to create the appearance of a place where an adult lives. Patrick has a smirk on his face all the while, and when Jon turns to offer him a seat, he finds that Patrick has wandered over to a side table with his coat over his arm, and is leafing through a pile of pamphlets for PhD programs he’d stacked there over the weekend.

“What’s all this?” Patrick asks, reading one from Northwestern with a few others tucked under his chin.

“I don’t know, just some programs that looked interesting. Nothing I’m planning to do right away, but eventually.”

Patrick hums, tosses them back onto the table, and walks closer to Jon, tugging him down by the hand so they both flop onto the couch, practically on top of each other. “More school?” he asks, still holding Jon’s hand.

“Maybe,” Jon says. “I don’t know, I just feel like I’ve gone as far as I can in my job, and I like it, but I could be doing more. Just something to think about for next year, no real plans yet.”

Patrick just sighs and pulls, wrapping Jon’s arm around himself like a scarf, snuggling closer.

Jon doesn’t want to talk about school or work anymore. He doesn’t even really care about dinner, though he figures Patrick will need to eat soon. He just wants to get his mouth on Patrick. He can’t believe he started the day certain they’d never talk again, and now he has Patrick here in his apartment, on his couch, wrapped up in Jon like it’s no big deal. Before he can lose his nerve, he shifts away so he can turn toward Patrick, who grumbles a little at the loss of contact. But then Jon leans in, cups his hand around Patrick’s cheek, and kisses him lightly on the lips, twice, three times, until Patrick loses his patience and gets both arms around Jon to haul him in closer and deepen the kiss. Jon feels light as air, and so warm, making out with this disaster of a boy like he’s been wanting to all week.

They go on for a minute or so, before Patrick gets a knee up on the couch and swings his other leg around to straddle Jon’s thighs, hovering just above his lap. Jon reaches down to grab Patrick’s ass, earning a muffled moan against his lips. He wonders if Patrick’s ever done this before, if it’ll freak him out when he feels how Jon is stiffening in his track pants. He’s just starting to gentle the kiss again, maybe move his hands, when Patrick rolls his hips forward, causing them both to exhale roughly against each other’s mouths. “Fuuuuck,” Patrick whispers, rolling forward again. Jon’s starting to sweat, and he wants nothing more than to feel Patrick’s skin against his. He shoves Patrick forward a bit, catching him with his left hand, while yanking his hoodie and T-shirt over his head with the right. He throws them behind the couch, and Patrick giggles. Before he can say anything about Jon’s messiness, Jon reaches for the hem of Patrick’s shirt and slides it up his chest, which causes Patrick to gasp. Patrick steadies himself on his knees and finishes pulling the shirt off, and Jon can’t help himself—he falls forward hungrily, sucking down Patrick’s neck and collarbone, toward a nipple. Patrick’s gasping quietly, pressing forward into him with his head thrown back, looking thoroughly debauched and honestly really stunning. The way his curls look in front of Jon’s standing lamp give him a sort of cherubic halo effect. Jon’s really enjoying the idea of corrupting him, feeling almost wicked.

Jon doesn’t even know what to do with himself. He’s hard as hell, aching, and really wants to get the rest of their clothes off. Unfortunately, he can’t seem to stop sucking, licking, biting at any part of Patrick’s chest he can get to, and the noises he’s getting in response are not helping one bit. He’s running his hands up and down Patrick’s back, marveling at his strength and musculature. Jon always knew he had an appreciation for a well-toned body, but he’d never had the opportunity to appreciate one in this particular manner, and he’s unsurprised at how into it he is. He keeps getting caught up on the wide expanse of Patrick’s shoulders, and whenever his fingers catch the base of his neck, Patrick groans, absolutely wrecking Jon. He pulls back to get another look at Patrick, whose mottled-red chest is heaving, and his eyes look wild and as dark as Jon’s ever seen them.

He whispers, “Pat, tell me what you want. I could keep doing this forever, but—”

“Anything,” Patrick breathes out, and Jon wonders if he’s feeling unsure.

“Can we go to my room? More comfortable. We don’t have to,” he says, not wanting to press for more than Patrick is willing or able to handle.

“Yeah, fuck, please,” Patrick answers, standing shakily and pulling Jon up by the hand. But instead of letting Jon lead the way, he wraps his arms around him, falls right back onto his mouth, licking in deep and pressing his hips forward. Jon spreads his legs a little, which makes their dicks line up perfectly, and Patrick’s thrusting erratically, and Jon feels a flash of heat so intense he wonders if he’s going to come before they even get fully undressed. Patrick’s obviously equally affected, from the breathy _ah, ah, ah_ s he’s letting out in time with the movement of his hips. Jon shudders, leans forward to nip at Patrick’s ear, and whispers, “This would feel _even better_ without clothes, Pat.”

Patrick sighs heavily, says, “I love that you’re calling me Pat,” and slides his hands down Jon’s sides to reach for his hands.

Jonny finally hustles them into his room, and thanks every deity he can think of that it doesn’t look too bad in there, considering the usual state of affairs. He pulls Patrick toward his unmade bed, pushing the comforter out of the way, and Patrick scoots up onto it and turns onto his side, watching while Jon takes off his socks, pants, and boxers and carelessly flings them in the direction of his hamper. He turns back to Patrick, who is once again looking like he might have something to say about Jon’s messiness, and decides not to give him the chance. He slowly climbs onto the bed and runs his hands down Patrick’s beautiful body, pulling down his pants and boxers in one go, following his hands with light kisses. It’s a bit startling when he reaches the coarse, curly hair at Patrick’s crotch, and realizes this is the closest his mouth has ever been to a dick, but he can’t imagine not wanting to explore this further when his mouth is literally watering at the thought. He drops Patrick’s clothes off the side of his bed, leans in, and just revels in the scent of Patrick’s musk for a moment. Patrick’s breathing hard again now, shifting his hips around like he’s chasing Jon’s mouth, and Jon decides just to go for it. At the first pass of his tongue against Patrick’s shaft, he hears a muffled shout and glances up to see Patrick holding an arm to his face, red and shining with sweat. He pulls off just enough to say, “Pat, I want to hear you,” then sinks down to suck him properly.

It's a little strange, Jon thinks, because while he’s never done this before or really even thought he would, he’d kind of expected not to like it? But the sounds he’s drawing from Pat, the heat of their skin and the smell of their sweat together, are turning him on so much he’s barely thinking about the taste, or the weight of Pat’s dick on his tongue and in his hand, except to appreciate them both. He alternates licking and sucking, and after a few minutes has to re-situate himself because he’s kind of sliding around, and he winds up basically crunched in half with his knees around Patrick’s, and his ass in the air. Patrick is moaning and panting already, but when he takes in the way Jon’s configured himself, he lets out a groan so loud that Jon is certain his neighbors can hear it.

After another minute or so, Patrick grabs at one of Jon’s shoulders, who pulls off and sits back on his heels to look at him.

“Jonny, come up here, I need to touch you, too,” Pat says in a low voice. Jon crawls back up to lie right on top of him, kisses him, and hisses a bit when his dick comes back into contact with Patrick’s, sloppy and wet with his own saliva. An absolutely genius thought comes to Jon, and he reaches out to open the drawer of his nightstand and pull out his little bottle of lube. Taking his mouth off Patrick’s for as short a time as he can manage, he squeezes some onto his hand and tosses the bottle someplace, then gets that hand down around Patrick’s dick, spreading the lube wherever he can reach.

Patrick gasps loudly, knocks Jon’s hand away from his dick, and pulls a knee up to plant one foot on the bed. He uses his thigh to flip them over, which is without a doubt the hottest thing Jon has ever experienced in his life; by this point he has figured out that Patrick’s strength is a big part of what makes him so attractive, but the fact that that meant he could basically toss Jon around like a throw pillow has Jon nearly out of his mind. Patrick gathers both of Jon’s hands together in one of his and holds them down on the bed above Jon’s head, and shoves his other hand under Jon’s ass to knead and dig into the flesh there, which gets Jon moaning like he’s dying, no control over his vocal chords at all. With no warning, Patrick grinds down filthily, and from there it’s a blur of crashing hips, sloppy kisses, and Patrick’s one free hand digging into the meat of Jon’s ass, long fingers skittering past but never quite pressing into his hole. Jon must be dying—he feels like he’s on fire, burning up to ashes, and there’s nothing he can do but take it because he’s completely covered by Patrick, whose powerful thighs and gorgeous hands and that _fucking mouth_ are everywhere and if this is how he goes, consumed by flames, he hopes that epics are written about this night.

Finally, the rhythm of Patrick’s thrusting breaks, becomes more erratic, and he tears his mouth off Jon’s just to bite his way toward his neck, right behind his ear. One lick, then, “Baby, fuck, this the hottest fucking thing, oh my god—”

\--and he’s losing it, bucking wildly and panting like he’s coming off a long shift, and Jon’s right there with him. He feels totally out of body, can vaguely sense the noise he’s making but is utterly powerless to do anything but keep moving his hips, chasing his own release. He feels as much as hears Patrick’s sharp inhale, then the shaking, then a warmth spreading over his dick, and that’s it for Jon who comes so hard his eyes cross, hips so high off the bed it’s like they’re floating above it.

They both finally calm a bit, Patrick spread languidly over Jon like a warm comforter, and they’re sweaty and sticky but Jon couldn’t move if he tried, not that he has any intention of doing so anytime soon. At some point, minutes later probably, Patrick sort of slides off to one side and lands with both feet on the floor somehow, to grab tissues off Jon’s dresser. He shuffles back toward the bed, looks down at Jon still flopped out like he’s dead, and leans over to swipe around Jon’s groin, cleaning up a little. He follows the tissue with light kisses, and Jon can’t stop smiling, and wonders if this is just his forever face now, this stupid soppy grin that he can’t see but knows must be fucking awful. Patrick finishes his cleanup, swipes at his own stomach, and walks over to the trash can in Jon’s bathroom to toss the tissues. Jon sort of loses track of time for a while, and when he comes to, Patrick’s in his boxers and a T-shirt from one of Jon’s drawers, standing over him like a fucking creep.

“What the hell,” Jon croaks, one eye open.

“I’m hungry, Jonny,” Patrick says, grinning with his tongue poking through his teeth a bit.

“Ughhhhhhh,” Jonny says intelligently, throwing his legs over the side of the bed but still tilted entirely horizontal. “What do you want to eat? It’s too late to cook.”

“I know. I should eat something carby, probably. Game tomorrow. Any Italian places still open around here, you think?”

Jon’s quiet for a second, considers not doing it, but literally cannot help himself. “Pat… babe, you cannot eat shitty West Side takeout pasta before a game day. Your first game.”

Patrick’s grin is bordering on crazed now. “Really? Why not?”

He knows exactly what’s happening here. He’s totally helpless to stop it, and he knows Patrick knows it too. And that’s how Jon ends up spending forty minutes making quinoa pasta and chicken breast in just his underwear, at 9:30pm, lecturing Patrick Kane on the difference between natural and refined carbohydrates and their effect on the energy levels of athletes.

 

._/   \\_.


	2. Collages!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fanart by the lovely Lolo19


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